Peter looked as if the last thing in the world that he desired was old Moll’s help.
“You have something laid by under this stone,” she went on, tapping the hearth with her stick as she spoke; and Peter’s eyes seemed as if they would drop out of his head.
“Ah, you need not think to keep anything from me,” said the old crone; and suddenly turning round, she pointed her stick at Aline, “nor you, young Mistress, you have your secret that you wish no one to know,” she added vindictively.
It might have been merely a bow drawn at a venture, yet Aline felt absolutely terrified of the old woman and meditated running from the house, but the thought of Joan held her back. “No, and you need not think you can get away either,” said Moll, as though reading her thoughts. “You are by yourself this time,” and she interposed her gaunt figure between Aline and the door.
“Come, Peter,” she said, “what will you be giving me, or shall I lay a murrain on your sheep?”
“I’ll give you three silver crowns.”
“Ha! ha! ha!—three silver crowns for a child’s life,” and, dropping her stick and holding out her skinny hands like the claws of some obscene bird, she began slowly to shuffle over the floor toward Peter, who stood rooted to the spot quaking in mortal fear.
Nearer and nearer the old hag drew toward him, scraping her bare shrivelled feet over the floor.
Peter sank on his knees and crossed himself. “God’s blood,” he said, “I will give you what you ask.”
“Then give me twenty crowns,” she said, and waving her arms over the fire the flames turned blue and shot up as though to lick her hands.